


My Empire of Dirt

by Dorcas_Aveline_Hill



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (1990s Movies), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:55:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22639642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorcas_Aveline_Hill/pseuds/Dorcas_Aveline_Hill
Summary: 1990 TMNT Movie 'Verse - a short look into Michelangelo during Raphael's convalescent period. Not sure what this should be rated, so I rated it T to be safe.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 20





	My Empire of Dirt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BrightLotusMoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrightLotusMoon/gifts).



> Setting: Original Movie 'Verse

Small sounds echoed through the silence of the farmhouse. Mike swore he could hear Leo breathing on the other side of the door, the lightest inhales and exhales. He gave the door the slightest nudge.

The screech of rusty hinges tore through the upstairs hallway. Leo didn't flinch, didn't look away from his vigil. So. He already knew Mike was there.

Mike pushed the door fully open. No change. No improvement. Raphael lay in the tub, wearing bruises across his flesh like a familiar sweater. There was an imperceptible movement of his chest, the only indication that their brother still lived.

If you could call this life.

Leonardo wouldn't look at Mike. He slumped on his stool, the weight of exhaustion and grief bending the boy's back near to breaking.

Michelangelo rested a hand on Leo's shoulder. No acknowledgment. No movement. He might as well have been a statue.

Mike might as well have not come in; he was still completely shut out. He pulled his hand back and stepped as silently as wind through the hallway and down the stairs. No point in being in this house. There was nobody open to him. Every heart had pulled the shutters closed, the doors slammed shut.

Leo and Raph might well be empty houses, for sale signs rotting in the lawn.

Michelangelo thought.

He thought perhaps Raph was dead, and his body was just slow to get the message.

He thought maybe Leo would see Raph's body figure it out, and slip right out of his own, to go find his wayward brother. And if he couldn't get out… he might cut his way out of his own skin.

The barn was hot and smelled of hay and horse. Mike walked slowly around the perimeter of the building, but instead of seeing the walls and the dirt floor, he saw two graves dug out back.

His stupid brain had even picked out a sweet spot. Right by the violets growing wild in the old, neglected garden. Leo would like that. Raphael would think it was kind of dumb, but he'd probably secretly appreciate the gesture.

Not that they could say anything about it from the grave.

Mike stopped walking.

Funny. He couldn't feel the heat anymore. The hard dirt floor under his feet seemed to disappear. He couldn't feel his hands. Couldn't feel his own heartbeat behind his plastron.

What he felt was an ache. It started at the center of himself, spread, morphed, coursed through his blood vessels, and stole his sense of touch.

Funny. He heard the break, smelled rotten boards, tasted the wood splinters against his lips, saw the blue sky blossom from the jagged hole, but he couldn't feel his fist go through the wall. Not the first time, not the second time. Or the third. All he could feel was the hurt in his soul.

The pain boiled over, brought rage with it. The hole grew, the wall falling before each strike. Mike poured that hurt and anger into his fists, hearing his own scream of agony each time he shattered the wall, could even smell his own blood as his fists scraped raw, but he couldn't feel the blows.

A thousand cuts with a thousand swords would be a balm, if it could take away the hollow grief killing him where he knelt. Pain rattled through his bones and settled over his heart, and held it still, just for a moment. He couldn't make Donnie bury him, too.

_"Mike! Mikey!"_

Mike's breath stuttered in his chest. He didn't want to hear.

_"Mike, Raph woke up!"_

The sound of Donatello's thundering run reached him along with the words.

The ache pierced Michelangelo a moment longer, then softened, a bruise beginning to heal.

The ground came back, uncomfortable under his knees. The ache in his shoulders. The throbbing of his raw and damaged fists. And he silently blessed each hurt.


End file.
